


As Your Wings, White Against The Dark

by Imoshen



Series: Sam W Bingo [17]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, ArchAngel Michael - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, Priest Sam, Sex in a Church, Wing Kink, probably blasphemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26177032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imoshen/pseuds/Imoshen
Summary: Sam has a heavenly visitor in his church... and he's more than happy to get his hands on Michael's wings.
Relationships: Michael/Sam Winchester
Series: Sam W Bingo [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1362991
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32
Collections: Heaven and Hell Bingo, SPN Rare Ship Bingo 2020, Sam Winchester Bingo





	As Your Wings, White Against The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> written for  
> Sam Winchester Bingo for the square Priest!Sam,  
> SPN Heaven and Hell Bingo for the square Wing Kink  
> SPN Rare Ship Bingo for the square Kink

When Sam Winchester had walked out on his brother and father after that last, epic argument over his wish to go to college, he hadn’t known where to go _to_.

The town they’d stopped in was located in bumfuck, nowhere, and he’d have to make his way to the next bigger town and hope they’d be on a greyhound route, but for right then all he’d had to his name were two duffle bags and his anger, and neither were particularly helpful if you needed a place to sleep that wasn’t out in the rain.

He’d walked the streets aimlessly and been drenched to the bone when he’d finally seen the little church, windows shining with warm light even at this late hour. It was like a beacon in the night, straight from fairy tales and fancy novels.

Drenched, cold, tired and heartsick, Sam had walked up to the doors and stepped foot into the church, hoping he could maybe spend an hour or two here to warm up.

The priest had been up at the altar, and he turned when Sam walked in. Sam braced himself, prepared to be kicked out again – and the priest held out both arms in a universal ‘welcome’ gesture and smiled.

“Good evening,” he’d greeted Sam, his voice as warm and calm as the whole church felt. “Do you need help, young man?”

Sam didn’t know, to this day, what had made him say yes, but he’d found himself spilling all his sorrows within two hours, dressed in warm, clean clothes and his belly full of warm, hearty soup. The priest had sat down next to him and held him as he cried, and when Sam felt calm again, he’d offered his help once more.

“It would be a little later than you may hope,” he’d cautioned. “I need to read the mass tomorrow morning and be available for my parish, but if you have the time I can drive you to the greyhound station after my duties are done on Monday.”

Sam had accepted the offer, because he hadn’t been sure _where_ exactly he’d have to go, and while he could find out… this was so much easier.

He’d sat through mass with the people of the town, and then he’d watched as Father Marcus was approached all throughout the day by people who needed help, or wanted to share their joy with him. Sam had seen their faces light up when Father Marcus smiled, and watched as their shoulders and backs seemed straighter after they’d shared their sorrows, and something in him that he’d had to bury a long time ago stretched awake.

Sam prayed that day, kneeling in the pew with his eyes closed and his head full of doubt. When he’d finally opened his eyes, hours later, to Father Marcus’ patient smile, the doubt had been gone.

Sam watches Joy Millers leave his church with a little spring in her step that wasn’t there when she walked in, her head held high once more. He smiles, content in the knowledge he helped her make sense of the mess of her thoughts.

It’s late, and Sam makes his round through the church to close it up for the night. A forgotten umbrella and a scarf make their way to his office, the doors are locked, and Sam turns off the electric lights last, leaving the church bathed in the glow of the candles from the altar.

He makes his way down the aisle slowly, anticipation settling into his body as a heavy warmth. He kneels in the same spot as every night, the wood a familiar ache against his knees. The quiet of the church settles around him, and Sam takes a deep breath and begins his own prayer.

“Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio…“

The Latin flows easily off his tongue, familiar and well-practiced. He recites the entire prayer with his head bowed and his eyes closed, and the final _Amen_ is a soft whisper of sound in the quiet church.

Sam waits for a long moment.

“Such devotion to me,” a warm voice says behind him, quiet and amused. “One might think you were my priest and not my Father’s, Samuel.”

Sam smiles, turning around on his knees.

Standing in his church, in the dim light of the candles, is an Archangel. One would not guess it from the way he dresses – there are no flowing robes, no gleaming armor, no naked blade in his hand to strike down evil. No, Michael the Archangel is wearing jeans and a black button-down today, and he still looks regal in such casual attire. The only thing giving away that he is more than human are the wings at his back, six of them, huge and majestic. Sam’s mouth goes dry.

“Maybe I am your priest,” he breathes, looking up to meet Michael’s gaze. “You answer my prayers, after all.” His soul seems to shiver when Michael laughs.

“How could I not, when it is said with such fervor?” he asks, laughter still in his voice and dancing in his eyes. “Rise, my priest. Greet me properly, then.”

Sam doesn’t have to be asked twice, rising from his knees so fast he feels a little dizzy with it – or that might be the kiss Michael pulls him into. Sam clings to the broad shoulders, losing himself in the Archangel’s kiss. (He has no idea who taught the Archangel Michael to kiss, and he doesn’t dare ask. Some things should remain a mystery.)

Michael wraps strong arms around him, pulls him closer, and Sam moans as his fingers brush against feathers. His hands flex, the backs of his fingers brushing against feathers again, and Michael chuckles and ends their kiss. “Go on,” he whispers against Sam’s mouth. “Worship me all you want, my priest.”

Sam shivers and nods and pulls free of Michael’s embrace, walking to his back so he can reach his magnificent wings. His cock twitches in anticipation as he lets his hands hover for a long moment, watching the wings shift ever so slightly with Michael’s breath. When he finally allows himself to touch, run the tips of his fingers over sleek feathers, his breath leaves him in a rush as his cock hardens. (He isn't quite sure why being allowed to touch Michael’s wings has this effect on him. He’s not going to find out, either.)

Michael hums and his wings move, shift and spread, and Sam moans softly and spreads his fingers, sliding them in between the hard outer feathers and to the silky down beneath. Michael echoes his moan when Sam’s fingers stroke over the warm skin beneath the feathers and down, a shiver running through him, and Sam steps closer and presses against Michael’s wings, rubs his cheek against the feathers as he keeps stroking them. Michael’s scent sinks into his senses, overwhelming and familiar, and Sam moans quietly and presses himself closer to Michael’s wing.

He loses himself in it, in stroking his fingers through the sleek feathers and soft down. Every now and then his fingers find an oil gland, and he spreads the slick substance all over Michael’s wings so carefully, breathing in the scent of myrrh and frankincense and _Michael_ , something he can’t explain but is strongest here in his wing oil.

Michael moans for him, louder and harsher the longer Sam strokes. His own cock is rock hard in his pants, twitching every now and then when a wing twitches into his hand or Michael moans particularly loud. Sam _could_ come from just touching Michael’s wings, has in the past, but Michael said to worship him, so that’s what Sam does, ignoring his own need.

The Archangel Michael moans out a curse, and then Sam’s name, and his wings twitch hard under Sam as his whole body shudders. Sam listens to Michael gasp for breath, and realizes his Archangel just came from nothing but Sam’s touch to his wings – and that is almost, almost enough to make him lose it, too. He gentles his touch, wraps an arm around Michael to help hold him up, and the Archangel gives a weak laugh and sags back into Sam for a moment.

The church is silent around them, and Sam has stopped expecting to be struck down for the liberties he’s taking with an Archangel. He breathes in Michael’s scent and tries to ignore the need burning in his veins, the hardness in his pants. Finally, Michael stirs and pulls free of Sam’s hold and turns, and then Sam’s heart nearly stops because there is an Archangel on his knees in front of him, his skilled fingers pulling open Sam’s belt and pants. The hunger on Michael’s face hits him the way a punch to the gut might, and then his mouth is hot and wet around Sam’s erection. Michael’s wings are spread out behind him, gloriously white against the dark wood and shadows of the church, and Sam can’t look away from the sight even as Michael sucks him down, works him closer and closer to the edge.

Sam comes with a choked scream, his fingers buried in Michael’s dark hair, the sight of the Archangel’s white wings draped over his church floor burned into his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos make an author's day <3


End file.
